


throwing down the gauntlet

by simplecoffee



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dom/sub, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gentle D/S, Post-Iron Man 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 09:02:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27348595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplecoffee/pseuds/simplecoffee
Summary: Natasha Romanoff stabs him in the neck. It hurts. It helps. After so long getting high off pain, relief is a high all its own.
Relationships: Natasha Romanov/Tony Stark
Comments: 9
Kudos: 30
Collections: Femdom Exchange 2020





	throwing down the gauntlet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [toucanpie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/toucanpie/gifts).



Natalie Rushman places her hand inside his body, turns her wrist. Back and forth. He feels it, though he shouldn't - he's drunk and he feels it, dying and he feels it, floating in that ever-familiar state where everything's heightened instead of dull and he almost thinks he could talk to Jarvis just through his mind, without talking at all - he _feels_ it, the flex of her wrist and fingers, as though they were his own. Feels her willingness to touch him when no one else will even look. Feels his own willingness to hand her this arm of the Silver Centurion, this part of him, to teach her it. It's an offering, of a sort. He's not sure what kind yet. He's running out of time to find out.

He expected her to follow his movements when she put it on. Instead, he follows hers, the delicacy and precision of them sharp and graceful, like a dancer's. Shocks dance up his arm toward his heart as he mirrors her, as he aims his bare hand where she's aiming with a piece of him - carefully, at a flimsy decoration near them, the perfect target. He hates it instantly. Hates every reminder - and the room is filled with them - that this is his birthday party, probably his last one. That earlier tonight, he almost said as much out loud.

He swallows the ache in his throat, the heavy metal taste in his mouth, and shows her how to fire.

She takes to the repulsor tech instantly, flinching and laughing at the recoil but keeping her balance, _liking_ it. He almost wants to let her hold on to it for longer, see what she can do, what she _chooses_ to do, before Rhodey arrives to kick his ass and shut everything down. He wishes he could follow her hands for longer without getting exhausted. He wishes he could talk to her for longer without struggling so hard to get a read. He thinks if he were going to live longer, he might have been able to lean on her, to kneel for her, because if he knows one thing about this woman, he knows that Natalie Rushman is not afraid. 

\- 

Natasha Romanoff stabs him in the neck. It hurts. It helps. After so long getting high off pain, relief is a high all its own. 

He'd forgotten the high of invention. It almost doesn't matter that this one saves his life. He'd kind of made his peace with it either way - done whatever he wanted to do, with whoever he wanted to do it with. There's still palladium coursing through his veins, still a long way to recovery, and Hammer and Whiplash don't help, though Rhodey does. Tony might swoon in his arms, if he thought he'd appreciate something like that.

The high of battle's no high, this time. He looks for Natasha after the fight, after the fires are out and Pepper is calmed down and told he's not dying and safe with Rhodey, on her way home. She's not there. No SHIELD agents swarm the Malibu house; no Coulson, no Fury, just him and the bots and the mess he's made.

Jarvis finds a phone number. An extension in an obscure corner of SHIELD HQ. He gently prompts him to leave a message, sir, and Tony considers letting it go, letting _her_ go, considers saying nothing.

Instead, he croaks, "Thanks."

\- 

He doesn't see her for a week - or so Jarvis says. For the most part, he's a little too sick to notice time passing, what's left of the poison coursing through him till it's spent. He finds his way back to the workshop on the seventh day, still aching all the way down to his bones but at the very least showered and clean, and he's toggling through old files trying to choose which one to tinker with today when she materializes out of nowhere, by his side. 

"Triple agent!" he yelps when she pokes his elbow, which is better than 'Russian spy', at least, he'll give himself that. "Romanoff, I thought you'd at least bring me a peace offering. You know, for all the mental anguish and such."

"I did." The Natalie Rushman curls are gone, and the Natalie Rushman banter. She has less makeup on, shorter hair, a soft ponytail, and her clothes are less _perfect PA who will cut you_ and _super secret agent who will cut you_ than just...workshop clothes. A worn black pair of jeans, a worn black shirt. "Fury will give you my report, when he wants. I'm officially no longer assigned to watch you."

"Report?" Tony says. "On my behaviour? My suitability for the super-secret boy band?"

"I'm not at liberty to discuss it," Natasha says, her voice even - still so hard to read, but Tony could swear there's a hint of amusement, affection perhaps, in the quirk of her lips. "My point is there's no longer a conflict of interest here. My job's done, so I could come back."

"That's interesting, Agent Romanoff. Very interesting. What'd you come back for?"

She leans forward, down, and kisses him. 

Tony feels it, shocks dancing from his fingertips to his shiny new heart. Feels her willingness to touch, when all he's had for a week is occasional concerned voicemails from Rhodey and Pepper, hoping he hasn't blown up the house. There's nothing delicate about her lips, about the way she kisses; she's all heat, all push, all overwhelm. Tony follows her movements, not a mirror but a parallel, leaning back and upward to let her in. He keeps his hands by his side, just as one of hers is, the other braced against his work table, carefully not touching the hologram glowing there.

"You can touch, Stark," she says finally, breaking away but staying close. "If you want."

-

Tony's never thought of himself as one to touch - not like this. His hand remembers the phantom sensation of her inside his gauntlet, of moving the way she moves, feeling the world the way she feels it. He takes that hand and ghosts it down her back, settling in the inward curve of her spine, as they take the elevator up. He hates the hesitation he knows she can feel in his fingers; carefully studies her face, the expression that's neutral but no longer shuttered, no longer a mask. 

Tony knows a thing or two about masks. 

When he kneels for her, he takes off his sunglasses. They're his indoor ones, only lightly tinted, but as he'd hoped, she nods in appreciation at the gesture. Looks at his eyes, first one then the other then both, with the precision and delicacy of something other than an agent, other than a watchdog. Reaches to undress him with none of the giggles of Natalie but all of her steadiness, all of her sharpness and grace. 

Natasha Romanoff is not afraid. She kisses him in between each item of clothing she removes, all push and no shove, hot and heavy till he's sinking with the weight of it. He remembers through the haze to reach for her in return. When he peels her black shirt off her shoulders, upward off her arms, her hands arch like a dancer's, her eyes falling shut.

It's the first time he's seen her pause. The first time he's seen her look something like hesitant. He thinks he likes her better for it, for how she's suddenly letting him read her as her hands return to him. Tony presses a kiss to the inside of her thigh through her jeans, some kind of reminder or reassurance, he doesn't know, it's been a while since he called himself a playboy and meant it. 

"Hey, Romanoff," he says, reaches for her belt. "You want it kinky? I can do kinky. You've done the research, seen all the videos, part of the job, yeah? C'mon, fess up."

"Hands to yourself, Tony," she says, and he drops them back to his sides like he's been burned. When she opens her eyes, they meet his, hold steady, glowing with warmth, as she unbuckles her belt, draws it out of the loops, then folds it in two and tosses it behind her, away from them. "Good boy. Some other time, when we can talk about it first. Deal?"

"I can take it." It's a whine. In fantasies he used to have, Pepper would lightly slap him on the cheek for it. Her nails would sting.

"I wanna talk to you about it first," Natasha repeats, her voice silky smooth and low, rolling over him like a wave, like her kisses do. She leans forward, folds her arms lightly on her knees, her breasts close enough to taste, her mouth warm near his forehead. "Text you about it, maybe. While you're at a board meeting. Maybe you'll be good for them if you have to be extra good for me."

Tony can never promise to be good, but she doesn't make him. "Touch me, Romanoff."

"Not yet."

"Please."

"Use your mouth first."

He moves the fraction of an inch she asks for, kisses her breast, leaves a bruise. Follows her words to her collarbone, then across her chest and downward, then follows her fingers as she shucks her jeans - gracefully, like a dancer, like a dream. When she finally touches him, she makes sure he's earned it, makes sure she leaves him wrecked with want, leaves a mark in return. Her nails don't sting, but her teeth are sharp and kind at his throat, and Tony promises her he won't blot it out with concealer in the morning.

"Tony," she whispers when she rides him, when she comes, and he feels her willingness to show him this piece of her, to teach him it; feels his own willingness to answer her, to learn. It's an offering, of a sort. He's not sure what kind yet, but there's time enough, together, to find out. 

He lets Jarvis dim the lights.

He thinks about the Avengers Initiative.

He thinks about building her a suit.


End file.
